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 But soon with bolder note, and wilder flight, O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run:
Mars hath lit his torch of war, Ranks of heroes fill the sight!
Hark! the carnage is begun! And see the furies through the fiery air O’er Cambria's frighten'd land the screams of
 Now led by playful Fancy's hand O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet,
To magic shores he flies, and fairy land, Imagination's blest retreat.
Here roses paint the crimson way,
No setting sun, eternal May,
 The Bard, a Pindaric Ode.
To harmony each hill and valley rung!
The bird of Jove, as when Apollo sung, To melting bliss resign'd his furious soul, With milder rage his eyes began to roll,
The heaving down his thrilling joys confest, Till by a mortal's hand subdued he sunk to rest.
 O, guardian angel of our early day,
Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more! By thee attended, pensive would he stray, Where Thames soft-murmuring laves his
winding shore. Thou bad'st him raise the moralizing song,
Through life's new seas the little bark to steer ; The winds are rude and high, the sailor young ;
Thoughtless he spies no furious tempest near, Till to the poet's hand the helm you gave, From hidden rocks an infant crew to save!
 Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College.
 Ye fiends who rankle in the human heart, Delight in woe, and triumph in our tears,
Your dreadful reign: Prepare the iron scourge, prepare the venom'd
dart, Adversity no more with lenient airs
appear: The snakes that twine about her head
Again their frothy poison shed ;
Her threatening rage beguile?
To happier seats is fled!
At the full feast of mighty Jove
And fills with harmony the realms above!
 Hymn to Adversity.
THE MEMORY OF MR. GRAY,
EXTRACTED FROM THE THIRD BOOK OF
MASON's “ENGLISH GARDEN."
CLOS'D is that curious ear, by death's cold
hand, That mark'd each error of my careless strain With kind severity ; to whom my muse Still lov'd to whisper, what she meant to sing In louder accent; to whose taste supreme She first and last appeal'd, nor wish'd for praise, Save when his smile was herald to her fame. Yes, thou art gone; yet friendship’s fault'ring
tongue Invokes thee still; and still, by fancy sooth’d, Fain would she hope her Gray attends the call. Why then, alas! in this my fav'rite haunt,
Place I the urn, the bust, the sculptur'd lyre,
Oft, ‘smiling as in scorn,' oft would he cry, Why waste thy numbers on a trivial art, “ That ill can mimic even the humblest charms • Of all-majestic Nature?” at the word His eye would glisten, and his accents glow With all the Poet's frenzy, “ Sov'reign queen!
 Mr. Gray died July 31st, 1771. This book was begun a few months after. The three following lines allude to a rustic alcove the author was then building in his garden, in which he placed a medallion of his friend, and an urn; a lyre over the entrance with the motto from Pindar, which Mr. Gray had prefixt to his Odes, OSLNANTA ETNETOIEI, and under it, on a tablet, this stanza, taken from the first edition of his Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.
Here scatter'd oft, the loveliest of the year,